Share this:

Like this:

Jeff Chimenti looks like a beloved high school music teacher who’s also a member in good standing of his local BDSM community.

OR

Billy and Oteil have both noticed the meatball the intern is holding aloft. This will not end well; Billy loves meatballs, and interns. Oteil also enjoys meatballs, but no one’s getting tackled for one. Billy’s gonna tackle the intern.

OR

All new on CBS this season: Friends. Due to legal incompetence on the part of Warner Brothers, the rights to remake Friends became available, so CBS cast these six and they perform the episodes line-for-line. It’s fucking terrible. (Bobby used to be a Joey, but now he’s a Phoebe. Mickey is Ross. Josh banged Rachel.)

OR

Can Mickey still fit the merch he’s yoinked these past few tours into a storage space, or does he need a warehouse?

OR

ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.

OR

I can’t see his feet. Is Oteil in his goddamned flippity-flops? Bobby had the sense of decorum to put on his formal socks, but I think Oteil is going full flop. You are not running into a Sarasota Publix in for a chicken tender sub and a sweet tea, Oteil. At least Bobby’s sandals are made of leather.

Pss pss pss.

I am being informed that there are such a thing as vegan sandals, and even if Bobby didn’t care, he would most likely wear them just so not to get protested by Lilian Monster.

OR

What is that?

“My toppermost?”

Your kimono.

“No, no. It’s a Japanese-influenced men’s toppermost designed by Givenchy in associated with streetFUVK”

There’s no such thing as a toppermost.

“You only know about poor people clothes. We have access to shit you’ve never heard of.”

Uh-huh.

“This is what I like to call ‘Fun John.’ Real playful, just mixing and matching and, you know, trying to display my own style. I’m always thinking ‘What is my aesthetic?'”

What is your aesthetic?

“Guy who spent an hour deciding what to wear.”

You nailed it. What is that garment made of?

“Ultrasilk.”

Is that like ultrasuede? A synthetic?

“No, it’s real silk, but much fancier. The worms are all wearing little tuxedos–get this–made from the silk that they themselves produced. It’s self-sufficiency in action.”

Is it expensive?

“Oh my God, yes.”

Ballpark it for me.

“Where are we?”

What?

“I wanna know how far my dollar goes. We could buy a town in most countries for what this thing cost.”

We’re in America.

“You could start your own business.”

Pre-built space or custom structure?

“The second thing.”

Goddammit, Josh Meyers.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t worry about how I spend my money.”

I’m not worried. I’m judgmental.

“Kiss my ass. What should I do with my money?”

Take as much of it as you need for yourself and give the rest to the poor.

“I will not.”

Well, there you go.

“And of course you’d say to give my money to the poor. You’re the poor.”

I’m just repeating the words of some Jewish guy I met once.

“You would buy just as much stupid bullshit as me if you had a nickel to your name. Easy to make a decision for someone else when you’ll never face it.”

You’re right. Absolutely right. Tell you what: you give me all your money. Then you’ll see that I would live up to my words and distribute it to the needy.

…

“This is a trick.”

It is.

“You wouldn’t give the money away.”

I would.

“I don’t believe you.”

If you’re feeling froggy, leap.

“What if I gave you a little bit of money and saw if you gave that away? Like, as a test.”

No. I will keep and squander any amount of money less than all. All or nothing. Maximum Christ, baby.

“I’m gonna pass.”

“I like that toppermost, boy.”

“Them other white boys look like homeless lumberjacks or some shit. Hats on indoors. They lucky I got a cocktail.”

“Oh, wow, Mr. Davis. Hi. My name is John Mayer.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“I am such an enormous fan of your music. I have every one of your albums, every single one. You’re one of the most important men in musical history. In American history! It’s just such an honor. Wow.”

“In the key of E flat, what does the C minor resolve to?”

“G minor.”

“You see this medal?”

“I do.”

“You holding?”

“We are. Collectively.”

“Gather that shit up. Those motherfuckers look smelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice. Respectful. Hey, motherfucker.”

“Me?”

“The other motherfucker.”

Me?

“Yeah. Why didn’t you introduce me to this white boy before? I like this young man.”

Share this:

Like this:

Oh, yes, Enthusiasts. You forgot. You tucked the information away in the back pocket of your mind, forgot it there, left it when you put your mind in the wash. I now take that information and place it in a sealed bag of rice. This promotional still–and you can barely call it a “still,” there’s so much exuberance in the shot–is fromRed Roses, Green Gold, which is what’s referred to in the theater world as a “jukebox musical,” which is a show biz term for “not an actual musical.” Musicals are damn near impossible to write–Steven Sondheim went insane for a year or two and thought he was living in Rome around 100 AD; Rodgers ate Hammerstein–but jukebox musicals are simple. You go down to your local Sam Goody’s, buy a group’s greatest hits, hire some actors, rent a theater, and wait for the money to roll in.

Except when it doesn’t. For every jukebox musical that runs for years, such as Mamma Mia or Jersey Boys, there’s a The Times They Are A-Changin’ or Tonight’s The Night. (Based on the work of Dylan and Rod Stewart, respectively.) Even the good ones are pointless, other than as revenue sources, but tourists and the middle-class enjoy sitting in pretty buildings while young people sing for them, so they’re going to keep making them.

Did you kill yourself halfway through the blurb? I did, like, two or three times.

But then I horror-vomited myself back to life:

Did you horror-vomit? I bet you did.

Anyway, there’s a plot of some sort:

The characters are introduced.

Their goal is stated.

Comic reversals occur.

An ingenue with an enormous voice sings the song right before intermission.

Overpriced wine and candy.

The comic reversals are reversed once again, comically.

The Act Two Hoedown, also known as the Shipoopi number.

Song from Act One is resung, but with a different meaning this time.

Big finish.

You wanna eat or go back to the hotel?

I’m hungry.

There’s an Olive Garden.

Ooh, I bet the Olive Garden in New York is fancy.

And so on.

If you’re thinking about taking in the show, you’d better hurry. The Hollywood Reportersaid “If Garcia weren’t dead, this show would kill him” and the New York Timescalls the show “cartoonishly corny.” Also: it is an abomination against the Lord AND there are no fucking Bobby songs. On the other hand, Jeff Chimenti was the musical director and did all the arrangements, so he got a check and that is a good thing.

OR

If I really did have a Time Sheath, I’d go back and knock that fucking hat off Garcia’s head.